


The Art of Zigging and Zagging

by honestys_easy



Category: Real Person Fiction, Tulsa Gangstas
Genre: M/M, Margaritas, One Night Stands, Tequila
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-30
Updated: 2010-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestys_easy/pseuds/honestys_easy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal learns the easiest way to get into Andy Skib's pants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Zigging and Zagging

**Author's Note:**

> Directly inspired by Andy and Neal's tweets [here](http://twitter.com/nealfingtiemann/status/10493026252), [here](http://twitter.com/nealfingtiemann/status/10494513058), and [here](http://twitter.com/andyskib/status/10496208911), I wrote a fic because it simply could not be ignored. XD It can be considered an alternate universe since, although they both live in Los Angeles, they have never met; I thought I would try something a little different for this story.

"Shot of Jack. Straight." 

Neal thinks the stink eye the bartender's giving him is completely unfounded: first a confused look, as if Neal's mistakenly walked into the wrong bar, and the bartender even picks up his baseball cap to scratch at the bald dome underneath, perplexed by the order. Neal tries to disguise his rolling eyes; last he checked, Los Angeles was still in the U. S. of A., which gave its great citizens the freedom to order whiskey in a Mexican cantina if they so chose. Besides, while the bartender couldn't possibly have more Irish blood in him than Neal, his pale skin and light, graying hair--what he had left of it--were definitely not from across the border. He's sure one to talk about what's good and proper in a Mexican bar.

His lips almost set off a rant about this not being Communist Russia before he remembers the addendum to his order, and they curl up into a half-snarl from the irony. "And tequila with lime," he drones, his roommate ever the alcohol conformist, citing with a broad smile that "When in Rome..." shit. Neal believes that even in Rome he would order the sour Tennessee whiskey, and wonders where that kind of philosophy would lead David should he ever find himself in a place like Sweden.

A quick glance over his shoulder at their table rewards Neal with the sight of David holding up two fingers, and it's not to promote peace among their warring liquors. A girl has joined their table, as Mexican as the bartender, sidled up next to his friend and temptingly chatting into his ear. Neal's snarl deepens as he doubles the order of tequila, already feeling like a third wheel. The bartender makes his way to the back shelf, his bottle of Patron well-patronized whereas he must wipe away a layer of dust from the Jack Daniels before pouring. Neal feels a set of eyes on him but it's not coming from the bartender, nor his roommate, David entranced in conversation with someone far more appealing to his sensibilities.

"That's an interesting choice."

Neal would be offended--yet another onlooker judging his tastes--had the comment not come from a mysteriously deep, alluring voice, from the mouth of an equally mysterious and alluring man. Seated atop a lone stool along the bar, glass of frozen, green slush before him, the slender, handsome figure catches Neal off-guard, breath suddenly stuck in his throat. He's younger than Neal but, he'd guess, only a scant few years: the lines on his angular face are chiseled through laughter, not age, the skin along his clean-shaven jaw still supple, instantly inviting Neal to touch. His large, dark eyes catch the light from a neon Mexican flag, and Neal can't tell if it's just the hue of the bar or if he's imagining the shimmering green lying just below the murky surface. Long, lean fingers glide aimlessly along the rim of the margarita glass, calloused pads against a surface both sharp and smooth. He plays, the thought flashes through Neal's mind as he recognizes the tell-tale scars of an experienced guitarist's hand, the ones he shares on his own fingertips. A roving eye leads him back to Neal's gaze, and suddenly he no longer resents ordering for the table.

He swallows, hard; remembers to breathe. His addresser's fingers are delicate yet skillful, wrangling the straw inside the glass into his grasp; it's distracting, to say the least, and he doesn't make it any easier when he guides the straw to his pursed lips. Fuck the shots, Neal almost wants to admit; he could get drunk off this scene alone.

But he composes himself, forces the licking flames of desire to simmer in his gut. He hasn't felt so helplessly attracted to someone since high school. "I guess," he says, cursing the hitch in his voice; he leans against the cantina bar, fingers curling around the wood, the tattoos along his knuckles illuminated like blacklight underneath the neon sign. "I'm just an interesting guy."

Remarking with a smile that he'd like to decide that for himself, the other man holds out his hand to Neal, introducing himself as Andy Skib. Neal wants to hear his own voice curve around the easy words, trace the syllables with his tongue like the paths of Andy's fingers against the rim of the glass. He settles for shaking the extended hand and replying with his own name. For such slim fingers, Andy's got quite the grip. He's so transfixed on the way his hand fits into Andy's--the pads of his fingers are cool and wet from toying with the margarita, and slightly sticky as Neal reluctantly pulls away--that he barely notices the bartender place three shot glasses at his elbow, two of clear, glittering Patron, the third a muddy amber shot of whiskey. There's a slice of lime wedged firmly onto the lip of each glass.

Andy's eyes widen, his eyebrows raised. "That's a weird shot of Jack Daniels..." he observes, the margarita straw back in his mouth, secured with a firm bite of his teeth. The scowl returns on Neal's face, having recovered from its temporary respite of lustful awe. He thinks about flicking the offending citrus fruit back at the bartender; contemplates chucking it at David for choosing the Mexican cantina in the first place.

But he takes the high road, shrugging off his grievances and picking the offending slice up by the rind. Neal's eyes close when the sharp sourness crawls past his lips, hits his tongue; he bites deep, unafraid, the sting no worse than ripping off a Band-Aid, the bitter taste of the lime dripping down his throat hopefully to be quenched with a lot more alcohol. He doesn't notice, can't really, how his new friend at the bar watches with the attention of a disciple taking communion, eyes wider than they had ever been, lips open in the tiniest of "o"s; Andy's palms are damp but now from sweat, a blush washing over his frame, and not from the drink. There's something en-rapturous about how Neal takes this bitter pill, refusing to admit even to himself that he's showing off for his new drinking companion: he sees what he wants and makes up his mind to go for it, pushing forward full-throttle, never leaving room for regret. Andy's eyes darken as he wonders what such a tart, ripe lime tastes like when it's devoured like that, how the juices trickling down Neal's fingers would compare to the skin underneath.

Andy shakes his head roughly to drain the thoughts from his brain, nearly upsetting his drink in the process. Get some fucking modesty, Skib, he chides himself, now focusing extra attention on his margarita. He's just met the guy.

Before Andy can react Neal's discarded the lime onto the cantina floor, in one swift motion grabbing for the shot of Jack and downing it in a voracious gulp. It's not the way the misguided bartender had intended Neal to take the drink but it all went down the same way. Neal throws his head back as he feels the strong liquor course its way through his body, washing away the acrid lime, enlivening him from toe to sternum with liquid courage.

"Tastes the same to me," he declares, slamming the shot glass down onto the bar.

Tearing his gaze away from the bobbing Adam's apple ferrying the last of the Jack to Neal's gut, Andy looks forlornly at the two unattended tequila shots keeping the empty glass of whiskey company. Those glasses belong to somebody, and would, inevitably, usher Neal away from his newfound friend. Andy knows he doesn't want Neal to retreat from the bar; doesn't think he ever wants him to leave his side. But the allure of a pair of eyes as blue as Mexican waters attracts his gaze like a magnet back to Neal, smiling softly, light glinting off the rings threaded through his bottom lip. Andy bites his own lip, wishing it were Neal's.

"What brings you to this dive?" Neal asks, nodding his chin at the empty barstools next to Andy. He leans an elbow heavily against the bar, ignoring the drinks there and any protests directed at him by their owners. This hadn't been Neal's first choice in watering holes in Los Angeles--hell it wouldn't even crack the top twenty--but it was David's turn to choose the bar, and Neal's turn to follow grudgingly. Now that he arrived here, grumbling in protest, Neal's not going anywhere.

Andy lifts his drink, a mock toast only to himself, the glass firm at his fingertips, the slushy margarita jostling slightly in his grasp. Tipsy, maybe; he hasn't been here long enough to be drunk yet. Maybe Neal can change that. "Margarita specials," he says simply.

If Andy considers that an explanation it's a pretty shitty one, Neal thinks, and calls him on it coyly, eyes narrowing. "Bullshit." He means that no one would come to this cantina just for the drink specials and they certainly wouldn't be here for the atmosphere; even the bartender knows his is a bar for those with nowhere else to go. But a guilty demon licking at the back of Neal's throat protests it's bullshit that a man like Andy, large inviting eyes and lips deliciously curved around a margarita straw, could ever be in a bar alone.

A genuine smile spreads across Andy's features: he may be in a bar alone, nursing his second well-drink, but he might not be alone for long. "Same old story," he says, eyes rolling dramatically to the ceiling. "Made plans with friends. Got ditched by friends. Making the most of a wasted Sunday night." His hand makes a flourish towards the glass before him, as if now, his first explanation makes perfect sense. "Margarita specials."

The jutting of a chin in Neal's direction catches his gaze: David's nodding towards the bar as he exits the cantina, the shots of tequila he ordered forgotten, unnecessary. His arm around the waist of their flirty female guest suggests David won't be sleeping alone tonight; the devilish, encouraging gleam in his eye as Neal returns the discreet nod suggests he won't be the only one.

"Looks like I'm getting ditched, too," Neal remarks; there's a fluttering of Andy's insides when he turns his head and sees his new friend at the bar, previously a third wheel, was now flying solo.

As if their minds communicated without words, a silent, base understanding of one another that only took minutes for them to develop, Andy and Neal's eyes shift downward, towards the twin shots of tequila on the bar, their lime wedges sagging under the weight of the liquor permeating pulpy flesh. Abandoned by Neal's companions for a more carnal vice, the drinks now looked lonely in the light of the neon Mexican flag, a glitch in its cheap design causing it to flicker red, then green, with an irritating buzzing drone. Red, then green; stop, then go.

"Can't waste good alcohol," Neal figures, though he doesn't know if in any other circumstance he'd ever call tequila "good". He hands one of the glasses to Andy while he commandeers the other. An electric attraction pulses between them as their fingers make contact around the rim of the glass; Neal would have never let himself live it down had he dropped the drink from the touch alone, instead muttering a curse under his breath as a few droplets of tequila splash onto their hands. A Mexican baptism, he thinks, achingly wishing Andy would reclaim the spilled tequila, flick a tongue along his tanned skin, licking it clean. The mark of starting life anew.

They toast, knock their heads back, and swallow the liquid flame, with many more to follow. Andy chides Neal the first time for not taking the shot traditionally, leaning over to procure the salt shaker, his body so close to Neal's for those brief seconds he smells soap and cologne faintly on Neal's skin, Neal could bend down and brush his lips against Andy's temple. They order another round as Andy instructs Neal on how to properly lick the salt, down the shot, bite the lime; Neal learned all this probably before Andy ever set foot in a Mexican cantina but he lets Andy finish his lesson anyway, allowing the soft baritone of his voice to encompass him, leave him smiling like a loon.

Neal orders the third round, and the fourth--the cantina gradually empties of its patrons, off to greener pastures and more affluent atmospheres--and the growing silence is drowned out by the pair's clinking glasses and close conversation. The hours tick by and leave two strangers feeling like old friends, the laughter flowing between them as readily as the alcohol. Neal marvels at the ease by which Andy's entire face lights up when he smiles, feels through a growing hazy buzz that he's known that face forever, but still can't ever get enough. With the way this night's outlook has turned, Neal thinks he might owe David a thank-you drink.

The empty stool beside Andy is pleasantly occupied now, Neal's decided to stay, and as the bartender replaces Andy's empty margarita glass with a fresh one, Neal rolls up his sleeves to indulge his curious new friend's interest in his ink. They're close enough to touch now, Andy's head bowed towards the portrait on Neal's forearm, patient, shallow breaths descending hotly upon his flesh. Neal can scarcely breathe himself as Andy abruptly takes Neal's other arm in both hands, twisting it gently, the curves and colors of the sleeve tattoo entrancing him, daring him to take a closer look. The fingers press in tenderly at his pulse points as Andy examines each colorful plane, the expression on his face intense, his hands not the only parts of him itching to trace the tattoos up and beyond, where the intricate patterns fled and disappeared underneath Neal's shirt.

He can hardly stand it, Andy's touch so hot and purposeful on his skin; Neal's eyes suddenly grow dark, the pulse underneath Andy's fingers quickening, the cantina feeling stifling and small. And when Andy's gaze flickers upwards, hungrily racing along the exposed skin of Neal's arm and meeting with his, Neal is so startled by the liquor-fueled desire he sees there--knows is mirrored in his own eyes--he jumps, arm jerking on its own accord, making contact with Andy's glass and emptying it of its contents.

Both men's reflexes are fast but not quite fast enough: they dodge the brunt of the margarita's path of slushy destruction but aren't totally unscathed. Neal's forearm is drenched in the sticky stuff, his dog's poor portrait now coated in lime flavoring, but Andy's jeans receive the worst of it, the faded black denim at his lap now decidedly darker, soaked through with the drink.

They hear a _tsk_ sound from the bartender, lax with his bar rag and mop. It isn't the first drink that night to kiss the cantina floor, and it won't be the last. "Shoulda zigged insteada zagged," he says curtly.

Neal's eyes widen and the apologies pour from his mouth faster than the margarita had poured from Andy's glass; this was certainly not the way he wanted to make a first impression. He offers dry cleaning; he offers to pay for the jeans. He's halfway towards offering to scour the entire city looking for a store open late enough to provide a replacement pair when Andy's pronounced pout stops him short, the hint of a smile on his lips and the lustful mischief in his eyes absolving Neal instantly. Assessing the damage with a drunken shrug, he slumps back in his seat, head down, eyes staring through a fringe of dark hair. Andy Skib certainly isn't a man to cry over spilled liquor.

"My pants smell like tequila," he says; he almost breaks his pout with a laugh, the absurdity chipping away at his facade, but before he can even crack a smile there are two lips upon his, melting away the mock pout, coaxing them open for a lime-flavored tongue.

He's not wasting time, not tonight: not when he's wanted Andy from the moment he spoke to him, dark, expressive eyes thinly hiding his flirtation, lips Neal's ached to possess, smiles and all. A soft sigh welcomes his kiss as Andy immediately begins to respond, lips parting, eyes drifting closed. With a growl in the back of his throat surprising even himself, Neal takes the initiative, probing the wet depths of Andy's mouth, a nimble and curious tongue mingling with his own. He's always been a forward person, and it's led him into more fistfights than he'd admit; Neal sees what he wants and he goes for it, never leaving room for regret. And tonight, in this dive of a Mexican cantina, not nearly under enough influence to blame it on the tequila, he wants Andy Skib.

A moan escapes Andy's lips, unheeded by any other soul in the bar but Neal, as the kiss fuels his desire, sparks a fire in his gut he realizes can only be appeased with more of Neal's touch. He leans in more forcefully now, reveling in the feel of Neal's lip piercings as they shamelessly rake along his mouth, drinking it in with more pleasure and fervor than his cheap margaritas. If a wasted Sunday evening always ends with a man like Neal in his arms, Andy's plans with friends will have to fall through way more often.

It takes a second once they part to catch their breaths, soft pants of air passed between them, though any amount of space between their bodies now proves to be too much. When Neal's eyes bat open again, adjusting to the light of the cantina, he's transfixed by the angles of Andy's jaw so close to him now, the elongation of his neck as he cranes forward, searching for Neal's lips to reclaim them. He reaches out with the hand untouched by the spilled margarita's wrath, brushes a thumb against Andy's smooth jawline, a desperate attempt to remember this night is real.

"My apartment's just down the street." The low, earthy tones of Andy's voice reverberate against Neal's touch, intoxicating him more than any liquor could manage. A shift in body placement leaves a squelching sound from Andy's soaked jeans and, more importantly, his hot breath on Neal's neck, so close it feels like it could burn him at any moment. "And these are getting pretty uncomfortable. So..." If Neal hadn't seen the grin spread across Andy's face he would have heard it in his words; the thought alone brings a smirk to Neal's lips, a shudder down his spine. "...I think I should get out of them."

As he hops off the stool, dropping a wadded twenty on the bar for his share, Neal follows him instinctively, knowing at this point he would go wherever Andy leads. The neon Mexican flag flickers violently one last time upon their faces, alternating bands of red, then green; stop, then go.

***

When Andy said his apartment was close, he had sure meant it: Neal thinks the smell of stale beer and salsa has followed them from the cantina when they arrive at Andy's doorstep just four buildings down, but it's just his memories of the place locked in his mind with the lingering scent of tequila and lime on his breath, on Andy's, and the way the other man's skin feels running underneath Neal's fingertips. He hopes this will only be a fleeting association; he doesn't want to think of that dive every time he touches Andy, because fuck, he plans to touch him a lot.

The apartment's small and Ikea-chic, sparsely decorated with ill-watered houseplants--probably leftover housewarming gifts from family--and guitar magazines doubling as beer can coasters. There's a fine looking Gibson nestled lovingly in a stand in the corner of the room and Neal's fingers itch to touch it, his typical reaction to any guitar that first graces his presence; he was right about Andy, he most certainly plays. But his instincts to handle the guitar are quickly overpowered by the desire to get his hands on something else in the room, softer, more supple, though equally belonging in Neal's able hands.

"Be back in a second," Andy promises after a searing kiss, intended only to be a peck but deepened as the moments progressed and neither man cared to pull away. He leaves Neal breathless, leaning against the wall in the livingroom, head turned, ear to the drywall, indulgently watching Andy retreat. Lips bitten and abused, cock straining in his jeans, desperate for release, Neal doesn't think he's wanted someone this bad in a long time, surprising even himself with his instant attraction, and his readiness to go home with a stranger. If Andy comes out of that bedroom with a chainsaw and a Jason mask Neal still wouldn't take this night back, his only regret before being hacked to pieces that David never paid him back for the tequila shots he ordered.

It has to have been Andy's motives to leave the bedroom door open a crack, it has to: though their conversation at the cantina traveled through hushed regions of friendly to deeply personal, introspective and back again, their flirtations barely simmering under the surface were always present. Andy was dishing it out as much as he could take it, the sliver of light slicing down the hallway providing Neal with a show he never thought he'd experience on this lazy Sunday night.

Planes of tanned skin flash in Neal's vision, shadows of bare legs, a slender silhouette, and suddenly it's agonizing to wait for, the bedroom too far, the crack in the doorway too narrow. Neal groans without even recognizing his own voice, a margarita-sullied hand breezing quickly down his front, along the buttons of his shirt, the outline of his hardened cock inside his jeans. If he waits another second for Andy he thinks he's going to explode.

His boots make quick, shuffling sounds against the wooden floor, like his calloused hands picking at guitar strings, errant, chaotic noise coaxed and molded into music. The hallway had felt longer when he was staring it down, that and a fiberboard bedroom door the only obstacles towards Neal's goal; but he tackles it in seconds and eases the door open in a smooth, fluid motion, uncovering Andy in his state of undress. His shirt and the ruined jeans were already tossed into a small pile of dirty laundry in the corner; Neal's persistence is rewarded with a sight of Andy in his boxers, not excusing his nakedness, not shying away. Neal takes in the sight, his head dizzy with lust and the tequila buzz: expanses of Andy's tanned, golden skin open to him now, dark curls of hair leading his gaze from chest down to the waist, the angled curve of Andy's hipbones disappearing below the waistband of the boxers, a treasure for Neal waiting to be discovered; a present, waiting to be unwrapped.

Andy's got a tent in his shorts and an unmistakable smirk on his face. He's been expecting Neal.

Rarely is Neal caught unprepared and so pleasantly surprised; Andy stares down his frame in the doorway through a thick fringe of dark hair, his wide, attentive eyes anything but innocent. The ball's in his court now. Neal raises his right hand as he steps into the room, clenches it into a fist, then relaxes again, feeling the strain of his flesh against the dried margarita residue encompassing it. Andy can't take his eyes off him. "Still sticky," he announces, shooting Andy a smoldering look, the sound of skin sticking against itself audible in the room as he flexes again, this time with only two fingers curved to his palm. A beckon and a promise; Andy shudders.

"Same here," Andy says, pointing in the direction of his discarded jeans, the catalyst to all of this. Neal thinks with a bit of regret how he's been robbed of stripping those pants off of Andy's legs himself, but the digression passes as Andy licks his lips, tongue running along his teeth, and Neal realizes they're not nearly naked enough. "Sticky...and wet."

Without another moment to comment on the condition in which they left the cantina, Neal's crossed the space between them--far too much distance, he thinks, and for far too long--and captures Andy's lips with his own, a crushing desire ignited, a maddening hunger for his touch satisfied. Andy wants Neal as badly as he wants Andy, and he's not afraid to express it: a hand comes up to Neal's chest, grasping at the collar of his shirt and unbuttoning its length, wishing it were as discarded as his own. There's desperate gropes and kisses shared between them, passed on and encouraged like cocktails, round after round. Andy's tongue darting into Neal's mouth, Neal's palm pressed against the erection in Andy's boxers, they form a perfect partnership they never knew existed before this night, a dance without footsteps, a symphony without sound. They're making music with only the sounds of muffled moans and skin slapping against skin.

Before another groan can escape past their joined lips, Neal surges forward and Andy obliges, carefully moving backwards and blind until cool plaster hits his naked shoulderblades. Neal's got him backed up against a wall and he should protest, make some move to gain the upper hand in his sexual power play, but a tattooed hand snakes underneath the elastic of his boxers and all rational thought flies out of Andy's head. He throws his head back, stuttering a moan, as Neal takes his cock into his hand, Andy hard and ready for him; the wait for this moment's felt like it's been fucking _forever_.

Not daring to close his eyes to the pleasure and miss the look of lustful determination in Neal's stare, Andy bites down hard on his bottom lip as Neal begins to stroke him, pushing the waistband of those bothersome boxers low past Andy's hips, tucked underneath his balls. There's a hitch in Andy's throat, almost a startled cough of pleasure, every time Neal's hand traverses the length of his cock, squeezing his fist at the head, thumb toying with the drop of precum already pooled there; sticky and wet indeed, Neal thinks, as he smirks and leans in closer.

He thinks he's won this power play; he thinks he's got Andy, literally, in the palm of his hand, hips bucking into Neal's fist, lips fighting to contain a whimper. But he makes his mistake when he leans in to rake his teeth down Andy's deliciously exposed neck, bracing himself against the wall with his other arm for support. With a sudden shift Neal's biting sharply, stifling a moan, his own erection throbbing inside its denim prison: Andy's putting his hands to good use, one making short work of the enclosures on Neal's jeans and the other guiding Neal's hand towards Andy's mouth, hungrily teasing in a finger, slipping it in to the knuckle, tongue curling around the tattooed "O".

"Fuck," Neal growls, wrenching his head up to watch Andy take in the finger inch by inch, his blue eyes so wide at the sight he can barely think. Andy's tongue is lapping at Neal's finger like it was his cock, tickling its end with the tip before licking along its length with the broad side, his cheeks deliciously hollowed from the effort. It's either a promise of what's to come or a boastful tease, Andy merely content in showing Neal what he's capable of; if it's the latter Neal's going to have to teach him a lesson or two, it's got to be against etiquette to invite a man to your bedroom, suck on his finger like a fucking Hoover and call it a night.

Catching his gaze out of the corner of his eye, Andy smiles, lips curving into a smirk around Neal's finger, and Neal realizes it's a little bit of both.

He hums in contentment around Neal, whose knees are about to buckle from this display; Andy's working his finger like it's what's in Neal's pants, the hard cock Andy releases from the jeans with a snap of a button and the metallic pull of a zipper. The cool air hits Neal's hot skin but not for long, Andy's palm enveloping it again in warmth, his hips leaning into the touch from instinct. The dual stimuli sends Neal's brain into overdrive, beads of sweat forming on his brow and above his lip as he tries to compose himself while at the same time imagining ways to get Andy to make good on this tease. His hand's never ceased its rhythmic pace along Andy's cock, steady like a metronome, like a time bomb, but he speeds up now, twisting his wrist around the head, and reasons in his own mind that Andy fucking had it coming. But they had come too far tonight, teased too long to end in a hasty, messy handjob, and the moment he feels Andy's body shudder, feels the low whine from deep in his throat spiral around Neal's finger, he stops, releasing Andy from his grip reluctantly, the hand trailing upwards through the forest of dark hairs to find purchase at Andy's nipple.

Andy's whimpering from the loss, his brow etched with disappointment, hips thrusting to find hot flesh once again but instead kissing only air. He'd be begging if his mouth wasn't so occupied; he never thought he'd ever want a man he just met so badly in all his life. But Neal is quickly like a drug for him, teasing with pleasure and pulling away for a deep, desirous pain. Once they touch Andy always wants more, and he fears he won't be satisfied with anything less than everything; even everything sounds so finite, when his desire and multiplying lust kept coming in waves, endlessly. With a final lick of his tongue Andy relinquishes his assault on Neal's finger, making a wet _pop_ that bounced off the walls of the bedroom.

Indulgently he licks his lips, more interested in the lingering taste of Neal in his mouth than the margarita masking it. "You taste good," he comments, a spark of lust in his eye.

He expects the laugh that rises up from Neal's throat, a deep chuckle that makes the light in the bedroom dance in his eyes; for a second Andy has the fleeting thought that he could be content with just making Neal laugh like that forever. But what he doesn't expect is the groan Neal makes in his ear, all lust and base desire; there's no more games to be played here, they've both reached their limits of temptation. They've been working for this moment since Neal walked up to the bar. " _Please._ " Neal whispers the plea but it's not begging, his desperation fleeting when he makes the request to Andy and completely gone with a flick of his tongue, tracing the lobe of Andy's ear, breath and words hot on his skin.

Shuddering from the request, Andy vows he will make this as pleasurable for the both of them as possible, hold out for as long as his limbs and his desire can take him, and seals this vow with a kiss from Neal's lips.

Wordlessly he guides Neal to the bed, slipping the open shirt from Neal's shoulders and taking the opportunity to run his hands down the muscles of Neal's back, feeling the hot flesh and bone underneath his palms, hoping that for more than this night they would be his. The jeans are quite another story: while Andy was enjoying the views the tight, black denim provided him the entire night, getting them off had become a task. Finally the pants, fitting like a second skin on Neal's thighs, give way after a little careful maneuvering and a lot of uttered curses from both men. Andy flings them over his shoulder as he kneels in front of Neal's seated frame on the edge of the bed, running his hands along the newly exposed pale flesh, gripping at calves, curving around the ass. The jeans might have been like a second skin but Andy thinks he prefers the feel of this skin a whole lot more.

It's the perfect view, Andy concludes, hands trailing possessively over the softer, warmer flesh of Neal's inner thigh, his fingers stopping tauntingly close to the base of his cock before retreating. Neal's leaning back on his elbows, heavy-lidded blue eyes watching everything, and it only emphasizes how hard he is, the tip of his cock glistening with precum, swaying slightly with every belabored breath, like an ancient, mighty tree helplessly at the mercy of a hurricane.

Neal is the tree; Andy is the hurricane.

He dives in lips first, already too far gone to think about seduction or bedroom decorum or the wet, slurping sounds he makes as he takes Neal down inch by inch, like his cock's a fucking straw to the world's best margarita. Nothing crosses Andy's mind except the heady scent of Neal filling his lungs, the surge in his own desire as Neal's hips buck up from the mattress, and the gentle pressure of Neal's palm at the back of Andy's head, fingers tangled in his dark hair, as he urges him on.

With a choked groan escaping his throat Neal fights the urge to roll his head back, reluctant to ever stop watching the scene before him, Andy in between his legs, head bobbing, lips closed around Neal's cock; dark brown eyes fluttering closed in their own euphoria. There's determination behind those eyelids, written all over Andy's face, those hollowed cheeks: he's looking to make good on his temptations earlier, and fuck if Neal's going to stop him now. His breath is coming in pants without even realizing it, the air in the bedroom hot around them, stiflingly intimate, and the fingers of his free hand tangle in the sheets, as passionately and endlessly entwined as his other hand in Andy's hair. The hot, wet heat of Andy's mouth on Neal is unyielding, unrelenting; he pulls back to swirl his tongue around the head and Neal makes a stuttering, gasping noise in his throat he wasn't aware he could form. Every muscle in his body is taut and waiting for release; every inch of his skin feels electrified by Andy's touch. Neal thinks he might die if Andy keeps going the way he is; he thinks he'll die if Andy even thinks of stopping.

The pressure is building now and Andy can feel it, from the tension in Neal's thighs underneath Andy's palms to the throbbing of the cock as it slid past his lips, trembling more and more with each plunge. He's a man on a mission, though, and Andy won't be content until he's reached his goal. Moaning in pleasure as he takes Neal down deeper, past comfort, past even pain, he is rewarded with a shout from above, Neal's sudden curse tangy in the bedroom air, like the sudden seed he spills onto Andy's tongue.

Fuck, it's good--mind-numbing, starry-eyed, breathtakingly amazing--and Neal thinks he came so hard he may have temporarily gone blind. He watches with an exhausted, elated kind of pleasure as Andy swallows every drop, humming around his spent cock in contentment--straight, no chaser. "Fuck," Neal says again, though this time it is a sigh, a wave of emotion washing over him when Andy's lips attend to less sensitive but no less coveted areas of Neal's anatomy, brushing kisses against his hip, his thigh, tracing the coppery-blond path of hairs upward along Neal's belly and chest. He'd like to make a comment about Neal's carpet not matching his drapes, but it's not quite the right time, and Andy would really like him to be in a pleasant enough mood to do him the same favor.

Andy need not have doubted him: cupping the other man's chin in his hand Neal brings him up to eye level, desperate for a touch, a kiss. He snakes his tongue inside, tastes himself on Andy's tongue, overpowering the damned margarita; he puts all of his wordless passion into the kiss, the power in his lips a hope the new couple could get the chance to do this again, the nimbleness of his tongue promising he'd give Andy the same.

"You taste good," Andy repeats, but this time his voice is huskier, the smooth baritone deepened with experience and the knowledge of how Neal _really_ tastes on his tongue.

The pesky underwear finally discarded, Neal sees his prize unobstructed between Andy's legs, his cock an untended, frustrated purplish red at the head. Wrapping his arms around Andy's slender frame, he brings them both down onto the mattress; he can't help but laugh when Andy lets out a gasping moan, hips suddenly wriggling and writhing against Neal's, desperate for the contact. It almost makes Neal hard again to dwell on the thought that he's the one who's brought Andy to this state, that sucking his dick made Andy want him even more. It's a dense, pleasing thought off of which Neal could get drunker than any liquor could make him; but he shoves it aside, rolling them both in his tattooed arms to their sides, his legs tangled with Andy's. They've got time, all the time in the world for another round; but right now, Neal's got something else to attend to.

His kisses trail lower, full of lust and purpose, as Andy's lips let out an anticipatory hiss. Andy doesn't need to watch Neal's lips descend on his body in order to know where he's going: a bite at the collarbone, a broad lick of his tongue against a nipple, teeth raking down his ribcage underneath flesh and muscle. It's a bit obvious. But he watches regardless, eyes as wide as his dilated pupils will allow, chin down, mouth panting in shallow breaths. If he thought the view was gorgeous before between Neal's legs, he's in absolute heaven now: Neal takes him from the base of his cock upwards, dragging his tongue in long, lazy strokes, before placing a soft kiss at the head. He's not teasing and he's not being difficult; Neal just wants Andy to enjoy every beautiful second of this.

Their eyes lock as Neal swallows him down: dark brown eyes meet blue in a crash of sensation cresting over Andy, the heat of Neal's mouth descending on him, tongue forceful where Andy's was playful, demanding his attention more than merely requesting it. Andy wouldn't want to resist even if he could: Neal is enthralling like this, free of flirtations and the playful games that brought them to this place. It's almost too much all at once, the sight of Neal below him like this, the wet heat enveloping his cock so intense it threatens to overtake Andy's entire body. He feels the blood throbbing at his pelvis, hips thrusting in shallow, needy steps, and his heart is thundering in his ears. It's like his body's being ripped apart and Andy never wants it to end.

He's at his breaking point when Neal urges him closer, hooking an arm between Andy's thighs, palm grasping onto cherished skin, hoisting Andy's leg up over his shoulder. Neal's never been the biggest fan of this position, universally preferring to receive rather than give, but he's always up for reciprocity; after all, one good turn deserves another. But this time it's more than just being on even keel with a lover, the faint scent of tequila and lime on Andy's skin from the spilled margarita enlivening him, and the scent of Andy underneath that--not to mention the feel of Andy underneath him\--is better than anything he had experienced with others, arousing him and making it Neal's mission to give Andy as much pleasure as his hands and his tongue could provide. He starts a slow stroke with his free hand at the base of Andy's cock, thumb brushing up against the sensitive underside, close enough to make contact with his own lips. Indifference is a thing of the past: Neal wants to make Andy feel this fucking good forever.

Only when Andy throws his head back and lets out a stuttered moan, his entire body quaking in orgasm, do they break eye contact, Neal's constant, intense stare into Andy's eyes smoldering, only heightening his pleasure. He empties himself into Neal with erratic, desperate thrusts of his hips, cock jerking in Neal's mouth as he takes it down, encouraged by Andy's moans. Colors bloom and sparks burst behind Andy's eyelids and he's struck stupid, every word in his brain inadequate to describe the ecstasy Neal has brought him to, the first of what he hopes to be an endless succession of encounters between them. They reek of the stale liquor and desperation that engulfs the Mexican cantina; they taste like a one-night stand that will be history even before their hangovers pass.

Andy reaches down and runs his fingers through blond hair as Neal holds him through the aftershocks, softly kissing his cock until it goes limp. Fuck conventions; now that they found each other they never want it to end.

"I've got to say," Neal rests his head on Andy's hip, his cheek tickled by the spindling hairs along Andy's belly; not the most comfortable pillow, but for right now it's heaven. "Maybe there's something to tequila after all."

He can't hide his smile and he doesn't ever want to: it pricks at the corners of his mouth, turning them upwards, transforming his usually surly mouth into a wide grin fueled by Andy's own smile staring back at him. His head rises and falls with every gasp of air breathed into Andy's body; Andy can feel the pulse in Neal's neck as it presses against the flesh of his inner thigh. Neal hasn't felt this content in God knows how long, and if tequila shots in a tired Mexican bar are the cause, he'll gladly give up Jack for good.

His pillow rumbles with low laughter underneath him; in all the ways he's heard Andy Skib's voice that evening--low and flirtatious, hot, passionate, gasping for breath as he came--Neal thinks he might like hearing his laugh the most. "Margaritas make my life," he agrees, and Neal has to at least concede that the frozen drink was the catalyst for one of the best nights in a Mexican bar he ever had. Andy shakes his head and chuckles again; his mind's so blown--no pun intended, he thinks to himself--he doesn't even know how he's forming sentences right now. "That...doesn't make a lot of sense." He looks down once more at Neal's head resting along his frame; he traces Neal's jawline with his fingers, tenderly brushing against the stubbled hairs and outlining the hard metal threaded through soft lips. "That okay?"

Neal almost imagines Andy's eyes shine with an affectionate luminescence when their gazes meet, but it's probably just his large eyes catching the light from the bedroom ceiling above; but he'd like to hold out hope that it's not. He settles back beside Andy and kisses him, feeling the now familiar slender frame melt into his embrace. Neal likes where this is going and he says it all with his lips, his tongue: soft, lingering and lazy, he's kissing to make it last, to feel it somewhere besides his cock. They'll have the time and certainly the desire for another round later in the night, and, if Andy offers and Neal accepts, the next morning. Right now Neal just wants the lips pressed against his and the rough hands of a fellow guitarist strumming chords down his spine.

"So glad you totally zigged instead of zagged," Andy whispers, hazarding a contented grin, his cheeks still flushed a well-earned shade of red, dark brown eyes dotted with undercurrents of green. Red, then green; stop, then go.


End file.
